Of Irish Skies and Yesterdays
by Selvine das'Annwyn
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall drabble, Sherlock-centric. Contains spoilers. Sherlock sits along the cliffs of Duquin Coast, Ireland, and ponders his life as it has been since that fateful day. Themes of loneliness, longing, friendship, loss, hope, and triumph all wrapped up as a whole. Non-beta'd/edited. Reviews and critiques welcomed and encouraged. Please R&R. Second chap, John PoV.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, Molly, or anyone else involved with this universe.**

Warning: Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall".

A/N: Just another simple drabble based around the happenings post-Reichenbach Fall. Following Sherlock this time, as I'm not giving him nearly enough attention, I don't think. Again, this hasn't been beta'd or edited, and it's quite short, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless. Maybe in time I'll post something over 3500 words, and then we can all dance and be happy together (except for those who don't want to read anything else I write, who obviously won't be at the party).

Anyway, reviews and critiques are welcomed and encouraged as per usual, and I hope you enjoy the story.

Thanks Again,  
-Selvine

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The Irish sky was dreary. Stark white left the potentially colorful landscape in vicious contrasts of greens, browns, grays, and blues. Birds sang somewhere off in the distance, low thrumming and mournful duets in a ghostly chorus. The crash of waves could be heard from far below, and salty sprays lashed up over the cliff's jagged sides. Rumbling clouds, steel-colored and thick, rolled through the air out over the water. All along the cliff's dampened edge, insects and animals scurried toward hiding places. Most would be invisible to an average man, but all lay within the vision of the interloper sitting perched over the ocean's rocky depths.

The gentleman visiting the Dunquin coastline had stopped for several days, and each day had come to pay homage to the lonely rocks of Dingle Peninsula. Pensiveness seemed to be the best word for describing him as he sat and stared across the water, his elegantly carved chin resting in the palm of his winter-white hand. Dark black hair lay tussled and confused about his face, long curls flipping back-and-forth as seashore breezes decided were best. Once bright-blue eyes now lacked their previous luster, shining only with the emptiness the lanky Brit felt inside. Hollow was the name any passerby could call him and accurately portray his deepest thoughts. Hollow was how he had felt since that day at Saint Bartholomew's, oh-so-long ago.

Sometimes thoughts raced through his head at a million miles per hour, and others the younger Holmes brother found he had no thoughts at all. His brilliant mind had been wiped clean of its deductions, it need for adventure and stimulation. A switch had been flipped inside him the instant he'd lost that friendship he'd so foolishly thought he could always do without. The happiness Sherlock had felt coming home to his flat, to the dull routine of the everyday person was a distant memory he couldn't quite grasp. The ability to talk aloud to a room, whether or not the person he was addressing was there, had been lost as well. The 3AM conversations around a case, figuring out where someone was, or how the criminal got away with their schemes before the police brought Sherlock on the case; those were gone, too. Everything small and simple about his mundane life with his mundane friends in his mundane town had been swept away in an instant, and though he hated to admit it, Sherlock wanted it all back.

In truth, the detective missed the silent moments in the living room with John clacking away at his laptop, he missed the disgruntled complaints about not being a housekeeper from his lovely Mrs. Hudson, he missed Lestrade's incredulity and hesitation in asking him for help. Sherlock missed Donovan's snide comments and Anderson's endless idiocy, he missed shouting at the television when the writers got it all wrong. Molly stumbling all over herself when he entered a room, arguments over who would be going to fetch the milk, the tiny details of his and John's financial lives, he missed it all. Had he known how much he would miss it back on that fateful day, he still would have carried through with the façade of death, but he didn't know if he would have been able to handle knowing he'd be alone for the years to come. Honestly, he even missed Mycroft and his meddling. Truly, Mycroft's wealth was what allowed Sherlock to wander from country-to-country, hunting down Moriarty's allies and staying hidden in the shadows until he knew his friends would once again be safe. Mycroft's many properties were left unguarded, unused, and open for his vagrant younger brother to take advantage of. Whether this was stupidity on the elder Holmes's part, or some form of his brother's intellect making sense of the whole matter, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. But for once in his life, he wasn't about to scoff at the opportunities a brother in such a high position afforded him.

Rain began to fall, one drop at a time, a steady patter of calming music all around. Sherlock's jacket, stained with the blood from his stunt, deflected the drops a little at a time, his indigo scarf giving way under the subtle pressure of the water's touch. Need filled the detective's heart to the brim, begging with him to speed his process, to throw caution to the winds and reveal himself once more to the man he had once called a flatmate, and a friend. Teeth burrowed into the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and a resolve thread its way through his very soul. He was bored, Sherlock decided. Bored of this game of cat-and-mouse, of hiding and fighting to free himself from the web Moriarty had left behind. Bored, bored, bored.

Slowly, a grin spread over Sherlock's face, and the detective stood. His coat billowed out around him, reaching toward the sea, and laughter filled the air. Moriarty had been a fool: Sherlock was bored. And everyone knew how dangerous that could be.

_Soon_, the detective thought, as he strode back toward the little villages of Kerry County. Soon, he would go home.

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**A/N:** And, that's the jist of it. I hope you enjoyed this tiny, little oneshot here, and I hope you continue reading and enjoying what I post. Please do R&R to let me know what you think, what you've noticed could be fixed, etc.

Thank you Kindly,  
-Selvine


	2. Chapter 2: I Believed in Sherlock Holmes

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBCSherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or 221B Baker Street, 221 Baker Street, or Baker Street.  
WARNING: May encourage feels of the happier/crazy variety! APPROACH WITH CAUTION/AT YOUR OWN RISK. :)**

**A/N:** Dear God, what is this? HAPPY FEELS? Selvine is writing HAPPY FEELS for John and Sherly? BAH. What wrongness is this? Obviously, I must check myself into hospital this instant to make sure nothing is wrong.**  
**

In any event, this doesn't really have a connection to any of the other stories except for the prior chapter of this. I'm pairing them together, because I feel they happen in the same universe and I feel like they both come across with this hopeful feeling that the other pieces don't really have.

No, this is not after "Dreams". No, this is not before "Sherlock Was Real". I do kinda reference them both, but neither is ACTUALLY related to this. Not mycanon-connected to either of them. X3

Also, I'm sure I'm not the only one who likes the idea of John figuring things out a bit more, knowing what's going on, etc, and leaving Sherlock completely out-of-the-loop until the last possible moment. So hopefully I'm not the only one who will enjoy this piece.

Non-beta'd/edited. Reviews and critiques welcomed and encouraged. I DO respond!

Thanks again for your time, patience, opinions, encouragement, etc- ALL of it is HIGHLY APPRECIATED!

X's and O's,  
-Selvine

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John Watson lay on the roof of 221B Baker street, contemplating his life and the lack of a certain flatmate. Nearly three years had passed, and though John's nights had been restless for a while, the dreams had suddenly stopped a few weeks ago. The soldier had this nagging feeling someone was watching him, and yet he felt safer than he had in a very long time. It didn't make sense, but John knew Sherlock was keeping an eye on him, waiting to strike. Perhaps three years of the detective's absence had made his instincts keener, or maybe he was just going mad. Either way, within a few weeks he'd either be happier than ever, or might have cracked and be safely locked away for his own good; both would be better than the Hell he'd been living in.

The English sky, as almost always, glittered in painful white and depressing gray. Sunlight made its only appearance in brightening the clouds to the point of blinding, and forcing all those below to cast their eyes downward. The doctor ignored the glaring attempts at suppression and kept his gaze skyward, sighing on occasion and adjusting. His hands rested behind his head, a pillow against the roofing. His favorite jeans and the shoes he'd been wearing since whoever-knows-when, accompanied the veteran's jumper, warm as ever. When the sky opened up to cry in short bursts, as it was prone to doing, the doctor simply ignored it.

Even now, higher than nearly every building in the surrounding area, Watson could feel the probing of those intelligent eyes, as if he were a puzzle piece that needed solving. Obviously the lout had yet to finish whatever business he'd been up to, or else hadn't figured out his flatmate knew he was alive, but whatever the reason, John was growing impatient. Three years without a word, and now the man showed up, expecting he could just watch from afar and everything would be alright?

Silly Sherlock, oh so childish and naive. Watson knew how much the younger Holmes brother worried, though the detective had always fought to keep his emotions under wraps in that sense. The doctor knew that every movement he made, Sherlock was calculating mental health, physical health, monetary status, relationship status, employment status, and more. Assuming the prat had not yet gone to his brother for the resources he could provide, or had chosen not to hack through the various firewalls the government constructed. Snorting derisively, the military man grimaced. Even he had eventually picked up on the trends, the little quirks people had. Passwords, firewalls, codes; his time alone remembering the countless tidbits Sherlock would point out had given him all the time he'd needed to brush up on the various technological aspects behind such things. New Scotland Yard didn't even know who their latest hacker was, or how villains kept appearing at their doorstep, hogtied and decorated in a nice red bow.

Grinning to himself, the doctor pondered; he wasn't sure how to push Sherlock over that edge that would bring him back. In all honesty, he hadn't been to the graveyard in a while. A sudden psychological breakdown might result in consistent visits, or even sleeping on the soil where Sherlock had been "buried". If he kept that up fairly consistently, the detective might decide that showing his face and revealing what had happened would help. Then again, he might decide John was too mentally unstable for an encounter.

Puzzling the pieces over in his mind, Watson continued to pour over the angles and possibilities. He could feign attempting suicide, see if that would bring the younger Holmes brother out of hiding. It would have to be timed perfectly, and Sherlock would need to be able to keep an eye on him, have a direct path to him, and so much more. However, if he took the time to plan it well enough, he might just get a bite. If he didn't, though, it might cost him his life.

Frowning, the soldier continued flicking through concepts. He could make Sherlock stop watching him with too many overtly physical activities in plain sight. He could do something incredibly stupid, pretend to miss the simplest of clues, and see if the behavior struck a chord. Or, he mused, he could simply wait, and the elegant male would seek him out of his own accord.

Yes, this felt right. John would feign surprise, keep up a familiar guise of stupidity until the two had formed a bond again. There were so many ways this reunion could go poorly, and rushing it might only result in disaster. He would wait, and in the mean time, he would enjoy knowing Sherlock's never-resting gaze kept him safe.

As the sun pulled out from behind the clouds for just a moment, John smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the heat, the light, and, simply, how beautiful the day had been as a whole. The world needed more days like this. The world needed Sherlock.

Laughter bubbled up from the doctor's somber throat, a grin split wide across his face, and cackling ensued. It might be a give-away to his viewer, but he didn't care. Sherlock was back, Sherlock was here. He wanted to scream it to the world.

_I BELIEVED IN SHERLOCK HOLMES… AND I WAS RIGHT._

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**A/N: **Yay! So now that that's done... I hope you all remember to reviewwww~ I really do appreciate it, and try to respond to all those who have accounts or give me a way of contacting them!

Thanks oodles for your attention spanssss...

Love Alls,  
-Sel


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